For Germany, I'll DIEEEEET
by StarsOfYaoi
Summary: *GerIta, implied USUK* The unthinkable has happened to Italy... he's actually put on some weight from his "huge, HUGE love" for pasta.


**SOY:** this is actually an old fill I did for the kink meme, and that I realised I hadn't posted on FF yet. Since I'm happily spamming you all with my fics lately, I thought I could add this to the list, too. Please enjoy!

It's really silly, so beware.

…–…–…–…–…–…–…

**Rating**: K+

**Warnings:** silliness. Really. I mean it.

**Disclaimer**: I don't own Hetalia.

…–…–…–…–…–…–…

**For Germany, I'll DIEEEEET!**

**One–shot**

Italy was eating another plate of pasta, with Germany staring at him in both vague disgust and astonishment at the size of the plates the Italian managed to eat without a problem.

How could he stuff his face like this and not burst or explode was above Germany's understanding, and it made him wary, too.

What if he ended up sick like when he ate too much _gelato_?

Having the other Nation's best interests at heart, Germany knew he needed to at least show where he stood about the whole situation.

"Italy, don't you think you're eating a bit… _too_ _much_ lately?" he risked out, clearing his throat in obvious hesitation.

The only reply he had was a shrill chuckle and Italy shaking his head as he took another huge bite of his _pennette all'arrabbiata_. "Ludwig is so~ silly! Of course I'm eating just the same as usual!"

Germany tried to chase the creepy feeling that was growing roots in his stomach and devoted himself to his delicious wursts instead.

Obviously the creepy feeling didn't vanish, but the wurst made him forget just how much it felt like impending doom.

…–…–…–…

A running Italy, followed by usual tackling and glomping was a familiar thing for Germany. He'd grown used to it during WWII, and even afterwards Italy had never seen the need to stop greeting the Germany Nation like that.

He _did_ expect Italy to run at him the second he saw him in a room, smiling brightly, clearly happy to see him. He _did_ expect Italy to tackle him as well.

Germany also expected the hugs and the declarations of love and affect and "let's hu~g, Germany!" yells, too.

As such, expecting it from Italy, and thankfully noticing the bouncing Italian approaching from afar, Germany had all the time to brace himself for the tackle and thus manage to not topple on the ground, hugging Italy back and nodding at his affectionate behaviour.

That was what he'd been doing for the last few decades.

What he _didn't_ expect was for Italy's weight to actually make him fall on the ground despite having braced himself for the tackle.

And the fall _did_ hurt, considering a heavy Italy was on top of him, also surprised at the outcome, blinking and tilting his head to the side. This was the first time this had ever happened, and the Italian was just as baffled as the blond Nation under him was.

Italy quickly recovered though, and snuggled into Germany's arms, clearly unmindful of the fact that they were on the floor.

"_Buongiorno_ Ludwig!" he chirped.

Germany allowed his breath to come back before checking Italy above him, aware of the stares of the other nations in the room (they were waiting for the UN meeting to start, after all, but they were also used to this kind of behaviour, which Germany wasn't sure if it was a good or a bad thing); still, he felt a flush burn his cheeks and an ignominious feeling creep back into his stomach.

"Feliciano… have you been gaining some… weight lately?"

There was a pregnant silence in the whole conference room, as various reactions took place at the same time –Japan gasped quietly in a corner, blushing and looking away. England and America, who had been having a discussion on their own, turned towards him in surprise. China blinked and took a step back, waving his arms dramatically. And France… France gave a mocking gasp, then shook his head in shame, sighing exasperatedly.

"_Mon Dieu, Allemagne_…" he muttered. "You're an incredible idiot".

Italy blinked. Then stared down at Germany, who had apparently had his air knocked off. Then at himself. The vaguely round stomach was poking from under his clothes.

Then blinked again…

And Germany found himself watching a slow–motion of Italy's face scrunching up, flushing cheeks, eyes becoming wider and wider and watery, then closing again and–

"Uwaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!" Italy started sobbing pitifully, clutching at Germany's shoulders and propping himself up to a sitting position (on Germany's chest). "I'm faaaaaaaaaaat! And now Ludwig doesn't want me anymore! He _hateeees_ meeee! Bwaaaaa!"

Some part of Ludwig's mind prayed to any God existing for Romano to still be with Spain… somewhere _far_ from there. Very _far_.

"Ah… F–Feliciano… I…" he tried to find words of comfort for the other nation, fully aware of the reproaching glares of France and China, realising his words had been quite bad–sounding. "I don't hate you… I could never… I was just…"

"Ludwig!" Italy grabbed Germany's shoulders in a tight grip and looked at him straight in the eyes, his brown ones dark and serious and pained. "For Germany, I will DIEEEEEEEEET!" The German Nation sputtered, not knowing how to react to this… at least until Italy continued. "So that Ludwig will want to go back making love to a _thin_ person! Ve~"

The blond nation let his head drop on the floor, the sudden need to go dig himself a grave so strong it was almost a compulsion; Italy's words were echoed by snickers and gasps from around the meeting room, and whispers and suffocated laughter followed shortly.

…–…–…–…

If there was something Germany regretted, was talking without thinking first.

Usually it never happened, because he preferred to think about things so much that in the end, he never said anything unless he'd properly determined pros and cons of speaking… yet this time, he knew he'd messed up.

Badly.

And now, because of his own mistake, Germany had to deal with a pouty, moody Italian.

An Italian nation who had refused to eat anything ever since his public announce of wanting to diet for Germany, and intended to keep his promise.

"Feliciano, you don't have to–"

"I _have_ to!" serious eyes met his blue ones, and Italy marched up to him so he could stare him down better. "I'm _hideous_! Fat! And for Ludwig I have to be my best! Because I love Germany more than I love pasta!"

Germany was actually moved by the earnest words, touched beyond recognition, so he gathered Italy in his arms, going as far as to kiss him on the lips, delicately. Even that small show of affection brought a flush on his cheeks, as he wasn't used to that kind of public display (forget the fact that they were at home).

"But Italy, there is no need to stop eating completely just so you can lose weight… you just have to… not eat as much pasta anymore, and you are actually doing enough activities that you don't have to do gym, and–"

Italy got on his tiptoes and gently kissed the side of Germany's mouth. "I know how much activity we do together, Ludwig" he smiled as Germany's blush intensified, his expression almost patronising, "but I _want_ to do this".

With that, he clearly assumed the discussion was finished, because he turned around and wiggled out of Germany's arms, returning to the book he was reading whilst Germany looked to the side, willing the blush away.

This was… not good. Oh, _Gott_.

…–…–…–…

"Feliciano, look, I brought you a gift" Germany called out after having cleared his throat; he felt hesitant and not just a little bit silly.

He wasn't apt in cooking anything but his wurst and potatoes (mashed potatoes) and other typical German foods, but definitely not pasta –it wasn't on his list of well–cooked foods.

Chirping, his lover bounced towards him, though staggering a bit, and Germany blinked, eyes scanning his frame –Italy looked already thinner, yes… but he had a fast metabolism, so it had probably something to do with it.

As he got close enough, Italy noticed the plate of food Germany was offering him, and stopped, smile fading from his face.

"Ah, but Ludwig, you know I cannot eat anymore until I'm back to normal! I even received a mail from Alfred saying he understands!" Italy pouted, turning his back to the other Nation and trying to ignore the fuming plate of pasta in Ludwig's hands.

Which was hard, considering the pasta _did_ look yummy, and delicious, and he hadn't been eating in the last two days, other than gulping down some water and eating a few grissini here and there…

Ah, pasta… how he missed the taste of it…

"But _no_! I won't allow fat to be what keeps my Ludwig away! I love Germany too much!" he yelled, running away…

Only to wobble and topple on the floor, the world spinning around him for a moment.

Yes, he was a nation and not–quite–human, so he could go without food more than a normal person could, but the lack of food still made him weak and swaying…

B–but this was for Germany…

"Feliciano!" Germany got to his side in a flash, still holding the pasta with one hand as he grabbed his shoulder with the other, and Italy's stomach grumbled, sniffing the pasta and wanting it.

gathering enough energy to push his lover away, Italy dramatically sniffed, "stay away! I don't want to be fa~t!"

"You're not… you're not fat, you're just… eating too much, that is! And this is not the way to diet! Why can't you do something well for once, and…"

Italy started sobbing again "there! See! I can't do anything right and I'm fat and Germany really hates me!" Italy wobbled into a standing position again, frowning and staring down at the German Nation with determination. "You'll see! I'll get thin again and then Ludwig will love me again! I'll show you I can diet well!"

And stomped away.

…–…–…–…

"_Tu, dannato bastardo_!" Romano's first words in regards to Germany, as usual, and the blond man sidestepped, evading the attack of one fuming Italian.

South Italy growled in anger and recovered quickly, grabbing Germany by his tie and roaring insults at him, "you told my brother he's fat! How could you, damnit! He's not even eating anymore thanks to you! It has been an entire week now! He looks sick and won't even look at pasta anymore! He keeps on drinking water and energizers and eating crackers and grissini!"

Germany looked away. Truth to be told, he'd been trying to reason it out with italy, but it was easier to be said than done, that person was terribly determined and stubborn… after his last attempt, Italy had even taken on avoiding him whenever they met each other…

Of course, he couldn't say that to the older brother of his lover –mostly because Romano didn't give him a chance to.

"It's either you make him _stop_ or I'll _rip_ your stomach _out_!"

And with that, south Italy left.

Germany sighed, even though he did agree with the older Italian about the need to make Italy stop starving himself. It wasn't healthy.

shaking his head, Germany straightened his determination, knowing he'd have to be twice as strong to get Italy to eat again.

…–…–…–…

England twitched nervously as he stabbed the slice of meat he was eating, fumbling with his knife and trying to pay attention to a rambling America, but it was a lost cause. He truly couldn't keep up with whatever subject the younger nation had chosen.

America, apparently unfazed by England's lack of attention, kept his rambling about many things, especially how his food was so much better than the one they were eating.

"This is what I mean" he poked his filet with the knife, rolling his eyes. "Look? There's no grease, and there are tomato slices next to the meat. _Tomato slices_, Iggy! They totally ruin the flavour! Where's the sauces and the oil and the–"

England twitched again and turned to the glass–window of the restaurant. It had been a bad idea to try and focus on his words.

He didn't really know why he'd accepted America's invite for lunch, he must have been insane, really; still, he had known of the restaurant, and he had thought that it could have been nice to eat together before the next Nations meeting –a sort of quiet parenthesis in their busy life.

The restaurant was a comfortable, nice one –not too little to have lacking services, nor too big to have lame food, and actually the cooking was very good… England hadn't minded eating there, even if it was America's idea.

_**Groooooowl.**_

And England had found out that it wasn't just America that could mess up a nice lunch. It was something else. Or else, someone.

"Ah~, it looks so yummy…"

That someone was the (_definitely_) freaky presence of one hungry Italian on the other end of the windowpane, hands pressed against the glass and a small trail of drool running down his chin, brown eyes wide and staring intently at his food.

At _his_ filet and tomatoes.

As he'd been doing from the start of England's lunch, more than fifteen minutes before.

Staring at his food like he hadn't been eating in weeks, which was actually true, at least by what he'd heard from France, who'd been told by Spain, who'd been informed by Italy's older brother.

Staring at the food like he was going to eat the glass panel and then everything else –food, table and the two of them included.

"I told you _not_ to look at him! He'll eventually go away!" America hissed, showing a sensible side. Or something. He was right, of course.

That was why he had been babbling non–stop about everything… England had almost forgot, since it was so normal for America to monopolize conversations like that…

But England _couldn't_ look away. It was disconcerting. And scary. And vaguely pitiful, too.

There again, why did _he_ have to suffer for the uncouth words Germany had spoken?

"F–Feliciano…" he murmured, fidgeting a bit.

Italy's eyes moved from his food to his face, but the voracious expression didn't change. And it scared Arthur a lot. He hadn't known Italy could look this scary before… had he looked like this during the war, instead of being so pitifully weak, then maybe…

"Feliciano, don't you want to, ah, join us for lunch?" he offered, eyes moving to see what America's reaction to his words would be. "I mean, you look hungry" _'more like ravenous'_ he added to himself, but didn't say that loudly. "And…"

From the other side of the glass, the avid stare turned into that of a kicked puppy, and England swore Italy's eyes had just turned bigger. And watery. And depressed.

He heard Alfred let out a quiet gasp, but was unable to look away from Feliciano.

"B–but I _can't_!" Italy whined, his lips trembling, eyes filling with unshed tears. "L–Ludwig said I'm fa~t and I'm on a diet so I can be thinner and he'll go back to making love to me like before!"

England flushed crimson at Italy's blunt statement, which sent some of the other clients in the restaurant to blush or turn away from the scene in front of them. Some giggled, other started talking in hushed tones behind their hands.

Not all the whispers were of amusement, either.

"Ah, Feliciano, I know how you feel" America stated, flashing a bright grin and a thumbs–up at the pitiful Italian. "I was in a similar position before, having gained too much weight, but I sought out different foods so I could still eat without problems! It's all about being strong and not fall prey of temptations!"

England truly wanted to elbow the other Nation, and hard, but he was sitting right in front of him, so he settled for kicking him hard on the leg.

Alfred yelped and lost his smile, staring offended at Arthur._ 'Why did you do that?'_ was the clear meaning of his look.

England fought the urge to roll his eyes.

"Feliciano, some excessive weight is not as bad as you think" he tried to reason, but was once again interrupted by the American dolt.

"What? Of course it's bad!" he stood a bit straighter, mockingly serious. England really wanted to punch him now. "Besides, I wouldn't want to be accused of being fat myself! I'd be offended!" turning back towards Italy, he smirked, "if you really want to lose weight you have to keep it up!"

Arthur groaned, shaking his head. Italy wasn't fat. What amount of weight he'd gained was already gone with his bouncing and running everywhere and his forced dieting. Besides, he'd eaten too much pasta in a period where he wasn't training either, so that was the cause.

He should have stopped trying to diet already, for the love of all that was English!

"Feliciano," he tried reasoning again, but the other nation had returned to mournfully staring at his food, and England felt his own appetite was lost.

Unfortunately, any of his further interventions in these matters were also lost when a looming figure appeared behind the Italian man, eyes glowing in determination and holding a plate of something black, burned and unrecognizable in his hands.

"Italy, eat the pasta and let's end this ridiculous attitude of yours!"

England's eyes widened at the sight of a winded Germany, who looked like he'd been running for a while now.

And what the hell was about that plate of ruined food?

Was it…

"Eat this pasta!" Germany's voice was clearly showing his state of disarray –close enough to snap.

Italy, who had been probably about to comment on the horrid black thing himself, or at least about to let out a pained howl at the wasted pasta (it didn't _look_ like it was pasta, but if Germany said so…), fought the urge and valiantly resisted.

"Eh~ Ludwig~ I can't! I promised myself I'll show you how determinate I can be and I won't go back to my word now!" Feliciano stood straighter, just like America had done seconds before, and moved away from the glass panel, throwing a last, longing look to the filet in England's plate, backing away from the blond Nation at the same time.

"Feliciano! I'll force this down your throat one way or the other!" Germany threatened, holding up the plate. "I've been chasing you since this early morning! You'll get tired anytime now!"

"N–not happening! You'll give up first!" with that, Italy took off, and Germany ran after him, still holding the plate above his head.

They disappeared behind the corner of the nearby shop, away from the two nations' sight, still yelling.

England and America exchanged similarly baffled looks, remaining in an uneasy silence for a moment; in a similar state of befuddlement, the remaining clients in the restaurant broke into fits of gossiping again, far from understanding what they had just assisted at, yet in a confused garbled mix of amusement and exasperation.

"… did you cook that food Ludwig was holding, Iggy? It was eerily familiar," America broke the silence with one of his bright smiles. "The kind of burnt, foul–smelling kind of familiar".

This time, Arthur _did_ punch him.

…–…–…–…

"I mean it, I love you _so_ much, but it can't happen!"

Ok, now the southern part of Italy was definitely freaked out.

It wasn't _enough_ that that fucking potato bastard had forced his young, gullible brother into going on a diet, making him stop eating in order to show the German his good will, and that other nations had spotted Italy drooling in random places, refusing any food offer he received and running away, followed closely by Germany (who was carrying a plate of charcoal, Spain said).

It wasn't _enough_ that Italy, albeit accepting crackers and grissini and water, still refused to eat pasta, and was so tired all the time that he spent a good portion of the day recovering from his running around.

It wasn't _enough_ that he had to suffer from seeing his little brother acting like a demented person in love (because yes, he was doing all of this for Germany, damn that fucking blond nation to hell), and he couldn't do anything to make him change idea.

Now, Italy was also turning _insane_.

Utterly, completely insane.

"Ah, my sweet pasta~ you know I cannot eat you~"

Lovino peered from behind the corner, but the situation was still the same –there it was, Feliciano, sitting in the middle of the kitchen, on the floor, talking to a pack of spaghetti in his hands.

Petting it, cooing at it.

He'd been at it since early in the morning, chirping over his pasta and promising them that he had not stopped loving them.

It would freak his brother more if he appeared as if the pasta replied, but up until now, it looked more like a one–sided conversation, which was still good. Maybe. Well, not really, but still.

It evaded Romano's mind that sometimes, when the time for harvesting tomatoes was too far away, he'd ended up also mournfully talking to tomato conserve.

It hadn't replied either, of course. Unless Spain had enough of an evil side that day.

"Ludwig sees me fa~t, you know? And I will not eat you until he starts loving me again~" his hands clenched on the pasta, the pack bending in his grip, "just wait, my beloved pasta! I'll surely come back to you once this is solved! Ve~"

Lovino fought the urge to facepalm.

Of all the _things_–

"And then we'll be able to do all those positions aga~in, and Ludwig will surely let me ride, too!" Feliciano's face brightened up considerably, the ruined pack of pasta clutched into his arms.

Lovino's brain short–circuited, and he fell into a dead faint, his last conscious thought about drowning the German potato bastard with a pair of cement shoes as soon as things settled down.

…–…–…–…

America glanced around, smile on his lips, observing the various nations gathered together, busy talking with each other, and hummed in appreciation.

Yes, yes, great, another day of meeting… another day to show them how much of a hero he was!

"We should start now!" he clapped loudly, to attract everybody's attention.

"You dolt, Germany and Italy are still not here!" England stood up, facing the American with a pissed off expression. "How could you not notice them missing?"

South Italy, who was standing next to Spain with violet lines under his eyes and the looks of someone who had been forced through a night of nightmares, shuddered at England's words and buried his face in his hands, muttering something neither of the English–speaking Nations could get, but that gained a lecherous smirk as a reply from France and a startled surprised gasp from Hungary, not to mention a pat on his back from Spain, who wasn't lookingsheepish at all.

England wondered what was wrong with the older Italian brother.

"Well, we all know how Italy has been lately," America replied, shrugging, and received a chorus of nods from many of the other nations, China included.

"He's actually scary, aru!"

"Wait, don't tell me Italy's been to your house drooling at _your_ food too!" England asked the Asian, quite surprised.

"Wait, does this means he's been at _your_ house, drooling over _your_ food? He must be in utter despair if even Arthur's cooking appeals him!" France said, clearly shocked.

His words caused many nods from the closer nations.

America chuckled at that, but of course England _wasn't_ amused, and started yelling and cursing at the French, who kept his superior attitude whilst bickering back, and soon enough the fight escalated to a full–fledged brawl.

It was thankfully interrupted when the door opened, allowing in Germany, who was still clutching at that plate of pasta (it had to be the same, because it was black, burned, and he'd been carrying it around for the last three days) like it was his only anchor to sanity.

Which in retrospect, probably was.

He really looked like he'd spent the last few days merely running around to catch the Italian and make him stop his stupid antics… it wasn't unlike Germany to devote his full attention to bringing Italy back under control, but this was getting ridiculous…

"Ludwig–san" Japan greeted, vaguely disturbed but at the same time showing the usual respect to the other nation. "I gather your efforts were wasted on Feliciano–kun?"

Germany sent him a pleading gaze and said nothing, stomping to his place and sitting down, ignoring how Austria and France, who were at his sides, scooted away from the pasta, clearly disgusted.

They had every reason to be. It was… freaky. Pasta shouldn't look like that. No _food_ should look like that.

"There's got to be a way to make him eat again, _scheisse_" he mumbled, so very close to having a nervous breakdown that he didn't even care about the current meeting.

It was granting to his nerves, but he was indeed worried about that Italian idiot. And he also was worried about his own health; he _knew_ Romano was all talk and no action, unless his mafia-side took control… then it was dangerous.

Lovino looked very close to that stage already, especially giving the murderous glares he was receiving from some seats away, despite Antonio's attempts to restrain Lovino from getting physical.

Ludwig wanted to slam his head against the wall and just–

"Well, you could try with forcing it in his mouth, if you know what I mean" Francis, having already recovered from the smell of the _something_ in the plate (was that… green stuff… wait, was it _moving_?), smiled flirtatiously and patted on Germany's shoulder, tongue flickering out from his lips in a suggestive manner, showing that his words meant a 'mouth–on–mouth' action. "He wouldn't say no to that".

Germany slowly turned around to look at him, and France coughed, not liking the way he was been stared at. Germany did look like he'd lost any other option, but surely he would never attempt this –not _Germany_, not even as his last resort…

No one would ever accept France's suggestions, anyway –even France knew that!

And especially not by going mouth–on–mouth with that horrible black stuff. It wasn't even _food_ anymore. If it had _ever_ been food in the first place…

Ludwig stood up and promptly left the council room, leaving behind a baffled group of nations.

"… should we start anyway, aru?"

…–…–…–…

Feliciano came to from his siesta in a strange position.

He was sitting, for once, and was actually dressed. Which was not normal, everybody knew siesta was to be done naked.

And he couldn't move. At all.

"Ve~?" 

"Hello there, Feliciano".

Italy's squeak was undignified and high–pitched, and he tried to back away, but couldn't –he was being held still by a rope. He was tied to a chair!

So, Germany had waited for him to go on siesta time so to get him! How intelligent!

'_Ludwig really is smart, ve~'_

"Ve~ Ludwig… what are you doing?" Italy let out a whimper at Ludwig's serious face, and squirmed around. "Is this… you're not _really_ into all that BDSM vids I saw in your house, are you?" 

Germany's left eye twitched, but he didn't answer.

Italy felt a chill run through his back.

"Ve~ Ludwig, did I do something wrong?" he gulped down his uneasiness "it's not because of my die~t, right? Because I was doing it for you…"

Germany lifted his hands where Italy could see them, and the Italian nation blanched at the sight –it was the infamous plate of burned pasta. The one he'd been running from since the start, and Italy felt far more afraid than before as he took a closer look.

It was the most disgusting thing he'd ever seen.

Was that even supposed to be pasta at all? Even if Italy could eat, which he _couldn't_, since he was restraining himself for his lover, he wouldn't have possibly accepted to eat _this_…

"G–Germany?"

Ludwig gathered some of the black thing with a fork, uncaring of its appearance, and moved the fork towards Italy's face, who tried and failed to struggle away from it.

"No! what are you going to do, Germany?"

The thing on the fork moved lightly –Italy hoped it was just his imagination.

"This dieting thing is going to go" Germany growled, eyes glowing with resolution. "And I'll make sure you eat this pasta… even if I have to _forcefully_ feed you!"

"_****_~!" 

…–…–…–…

Antonio stared at Feliciano, who was gobbling down a plate full of pasta in record time, smiling and cooing at it, happy and cheerful; surprised, the Spanish nation blinked, turning towards a calm Ludwig, who was observing said scene as well, not looking away.

"Say, Ludwig, did you really take Francis' suggestion with the mouth–on–mouth thing?" he asked, surprised.

He should try that with Lovino sometimes, if it worked so well… well, maybe not on burnt food. Lovino would not appreciate, especially not if it was burnt pasta.

Especially with pasta that had underwent a mutation. He shivered.

"Huh? Mouth–on–mouth? What are you talking about?" Germany finally turned his attention towards Spain and frowned.

the Spanish man blinked in surprise again. "Er… Francis' suggestion to forcefully feed Italy…?"

Italy froze in mid–chew at Spain's words and a shudder racked through his body.

"N–no more force–feeding! I'll be good! I promise! Don't let Germany feed me anymore! I swear I'll never go on a diet _anymoooore_!" he started waving his arms around, and Germany turned his attention to him, smiling a somewhat dark, chilly smile.

"You just keep eating, Italy" his voice held a tone… some sort of _something_ that scared Spain just as much as it clearly scared Italy. "If you eat, nothing bad will happen".

Italy resumed his vacuum–cleaning the plate, and suddenly Spain decided he _really_ didn't want to know.

Germany smirked in satisfaction and resumed his staring at Italy, humming under his breath, and Spain decided it was right about time to run away.

Fast.

…–…–…–…–…–…–…

**SOY:** I told you it was silly.

_Buongiorno (Italian)_ – good morning

_Gelato (Italian)_ – ice cream

_Pennette all'arrabbiata_ – italian food. Basically, a kind of spicy-sauce pasta.

_Tu, dannato bastardo (Italian) _– you damned bastard

_Gott (German)_ – God

_Scheisse (German)_ – Shit


End file.
